Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 15 Rules for a New Midnight Watchman | Part 1

Episode Date: February 23, 2026

Listen to all 3 parts completely ad-free now with a 7-day FREE TRIAL of⁠ ⁠Dr. NoSleep Premium⁠⁠. Cancel anytime. No commitment. 👉🏼 patreon.com/drnosleep I guard the gate to Hell, enforce fifteen rules I don’t fully understand, and record a podcast to stay sane—but tonight, angels are lying, demons are panicking, and something far worse is trying to get through. When the Midnight Watchman’s rules start breaking one by one, the question isn’t what’s coming for the gate—it’s whether I’ll survive my shift long enough to stop it. BetterHelp: Sign up now and get 10% off at betterhelp.com/dns. Quince: Go to ⁠quince.com/dns⁠ for free shipping and 365-day returns. ⁠⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠⁠ - Fresh, same-day roasted coffee delivered straight to your door. Use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout to get 20% off your first order. Author: Jake Bible Check out Jake's latest collection of stories, They All Bleed: Ten NoSleep Stories, Volume Two: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G96H432Y * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

If you'd like to hear 15 rules for a new midnight watchman without interruptions, the full story is live now on Patreon. With a free seven-day trial to Dr. No Sleep premium, you get instant access. Just go to patreon.com slash DR No Sleep. Also, before we dive in, I'd love to know where you're listening from. So drop a comment and let's get into the story. The emissary from above sits across for me at the guardhouse's small table and picks at its fingernails. or I think it does.

It looks like it has fingernails, but every so often, the emissaries form sort of twitches, and I'm not sure what I'm looking at. An angel, devil, person, Faye, troll. It's like everything that exists is inside this creature. I can't even tell if it is male or female.

Emissaries from above have that androgynous vibe about them. Again, even though I'm not certain that the emissary has fingernails, it's picking at something. And since it's from above, I let it be, and don't ask it any personal questions. So, you heard my podcast? Really? It looks up from its fingers and fixes its perfectly black eyes on me. What I assume are wings on its back, even though I haven't seen them since they are folded neatly and compactly inside its cloak. flutter, and the smell of marshmallows and ancient glaciers fills the guardhouse. We all have, yes.

Its voice feels like it spreads across all audio spectrums, including time and space. Also, it's a little hoarse, like it's been shouting at a football match for a couple of hours. It sounds like a preacher after delivering a fiery sermon. We are quite taken with your diligence. I look about my guardhouse. diligence? With what? I exist in a space barely more than six feet squared.

The small table and two chairs are the only pieces of furniture allowed in the watchman's house. It's called a house, but it's really nothing more than a shack, a simple guardhouse. The table and two chairs, a standing desk by the sliding door in the window, a cabinet bolted to the wall, a telephone bolted up next to the cabinet, and an ever-changing picture of the city's mayor on the opposite wall. This term, it's Mrs. Dunwipple, a reformed banshee, trying to stop the feud between the goblins and the cobbolds. The violence has spilled out from the alleyways and basements and onto the streets of the city. I heard that last week, an entire family of pixies was brutally killed in broad daylight as a gang of cobbles and a pack of goblins

went at it. But that can't be right. Or I would have seen at least one member of the family in the procession of the damned. The nightly walk that the condemned spirits of the dead take to and through the gate. The gate to hell, to be clear. I look out at the handful of torches staked on either side of the gate. The flames sputter and dance in the night to an unheard, unfelt breeze that never stops. Mist flits about, floating here and there. I always think the mist needs to make up its mind when I stare out the window and watch it perform its aerial acrobatics. But it's not the same mist that appears when the procession of the damned arrives. That stuff is like pea soup. This mist is more bits of cotton candy bouncing around, playing tag.

Dunn staring at the mist, I take a seat and wait. Which is most of what I do as the midnight watchman. Wait. Do you like working here? It waves a pale hand about. In this tiny space, shepherding all the lost and damned souls through that gated into. That place? I shrug and straighten my watchman's coat. The brass buttons and gold braiding shine even in the dim light.

I reach up and tip my watchman's cap back. I suppose. I gulp and try to be positive. After what I did, I think I'm getting off easy. Is that what you believe? That this position of yours is getting off easy? It could be worse. It cocks its head and drills into my soul with those pure black eyes.

I suppose you will find out in the end, but not until your replacement arrives and your name ends up on the checklist. I glance at the clipboard on the standing desk. The names change every evening, whether they are damned or simply travelers or guests seeking to gain entrance through the gate and on to the road to hell. If your name isn't on the list, then you do not go through the gate. It's one of the 15 rules for the Midnight Watchmen. I look back at the emissary and frown. Yeah, well, that's the job.

I'm the Midnight Watchman, nothing else. But that is not true. The emissary leans forward, steepling its possibly fingernailess fingers. You had a name before you became the Midnight Watchman. Do you remember what it is? No. I say that with complete confidence. Not a tremble in my voice or waver in my soul.

I am the Midnight Watchman, nothing else. That is one of the rules, yes? One of your Watchmen's rules? How many are there? Fifteen. And you know them all? I must in order to be here. The 15th rule is that your shift ends when your replacement learns all of the rules.

I learned the rules, so I took over. And the other rules? I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Why are you here again? Because of my podcast? It nods. You really get my podcast in the above? It nods again.

That's wild. I honestly didn't think anyone could hear my podcast at all. Mostly because the majority of the city doesn't. doesn't have a device capable of playing a podcast. I believe there are exactly six computers in the whole city, and one of them takes up an entire block. We don't need computers or devices in the above to hear you, Watchmen. Well, that's convenient.

Not always. There's a noise from outside, and I stand up, going to the single window set next to the sliding door. By habit, my hand grabs the handle of the nightstick I keep by the door. My fingers instantly fidgeting with a leather strap dangling from the end. Outside, all I see, besides the mist, is the broken and cracked pavement of the road that leads to the gate. That damn gate. Twenty feet tall and made of pure iron that can only be opened by me when I recite words, but even I don't understand.

The noise comes again, and I scan the darkness. A scrape from across the street pulls my eyes to withstand. of holly trees. There are normally bright red berries the color of black blood in the darkness. You want to hear the rules? I don't take my eyes off the holly trees, but I know the being behind me has nodded. Fine. Here you go. I take a deep breath. One is, you are the midnight watchman and nothing else. Two is never leave your post. Three is if you hear or see something, you count to 12. Wait and observe. Then investigate. Four is always keep your nightstick with you when you leave the watchman's house.

Five is three warnings. Three questions. Six is no mercy, no second chances. Seven is assume nothing. Eight is anyone inside the guardhouse has sanctuary. Nine is report violations immediately. Ten is once an attack happens, all bets are off. Eleven is always tip the delivery wraith.

I laugh. That's an important one. Are the branches of the holly tree moving? I narrow my eyes and focus, ready to count to 12. And the rest? Right, yeah. 12 is deal with your issues. 13 is do whatever it takes to protect the procession

until it passes through the gate. 14 is only those on the checklist are allowed through the gate, no exceptions. And you know what 15 is. Is your podcast how you cope with the 12th rule? Deal with your issues. shoes? Could be. I never thought about it that way. Yes, the holly branches are moving. Slipping the leather strap over my hand and wrist, I slide the door open and step outside, my nightstick gripped tightly in my hand. Whoever you are, whatever you are, knock it off,

or there will be trouble. Don't make me tell you two more times. Picture this, it's late at night, you're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S. From major brands like Mattel and Jimshark to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images.

It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less cards go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash D&S. That's Shopify.com slash D. A B-N-S. I count to 12.

By the time I get to eight, a long snout appears, and a low, gruff voice interrupts the night's quiet. Hey, watchman. Um, could I talk to you for a second? Show yourself first. Do not make me say it a third time. I step out onto the cracked and broken pavement. My nightstick at the ready.

Yeah, well, that's sort of the problem. It's a little embarrassing. Nice try whoever you are. Now, when I tell you to step out of the holly trees this time, you will step out of the damn holly trees. If I have to come to you, embarrassment will be the least of your worries. Do I got a? Yes.

Grab. The branches rustle and outsteps a six-foot-four werewolf with bright pink fur. How festive! The emissary's voice comes from directly behind me, but I don't turn around. I do sigh, though. A bit of advice, emissary? Oh, yes. I would love to hear your advice. Okay, then. Well, for starters, it's never wise to sneak up behind a watchman.

I lift my nightstick without taking my eyes off the pink abomination in front of me. Even those from above are not immune to my stick. The emissary chuckles. That is a piece of wood. It does not frighten me. Yeah, yeah, that's just a piece of wood. The werewolf puffs out his chest. And you're just a watchman. The werewolf takes a single step toward the gate.

I slammed the nightstick down against the pavement, immediately adding a new crack. Lightning zigs and zags across the road. And the werewolf has to leap into the air to keep from getting fried. Hey, watch it. Impressive. I did not know they could do that. My apologies. It chuckles again.

But I doubt it could harm those like me. Want to test that? My eyes are still locked on the werewolf, but I can tell from the fact that there's no chuckle this time that I got my point across. I'll let you complete your work. I don't hear it step back into the guardhouse, but I do feel an absence of its presence behind me.

I get back to work. What do you want, Wolf? Um, yeah, so I'm going to count Nargles' retirement party, and, well, uh, I forgot my invitation. You forgot your invitation. Like I haven't heard that one before. Which one is Count Nargle again? Then I look him up and down.

And what's with the pink fur? It's the theme. Not exactly my personal choice. I frowned and scratch my cheek with the tip of my nightstick. It smells like ozone. I shake my head. Then why were you hiding in the holly trees? Sure, you're pink, but so what?

I've seen it all at this gate. Um, yeah, the embarrassing part is I have to have the invitation to get through the gate. That's not how it works. All you need is for your name to be on the list. He shrugs. That's not what the invitation said. The one you forgot. Well, more like lost.

I take a deep breath and sigh again. Hold on. Let me see what's up. I step back into the guardhouse, and the emissary is sitting casually at the table. It's black eyes following my every move. How do you resolve issues like this? The checklist. I fetched the clipboard from the desk, then lean my head out of the guardhouse. What's your name?

Brian. Brian Mansion. Okay, give me a sec. I scanned the checklist and find his name toward the middle. Then I frown. There's an asterisk. What? I couldn't hear you.

Is an asterisk nor? Normal? No, they're rare. How lucky I get to witness this. Yep, lucky you. I look at the bottom of the page to see the notation. A second asterisk is there with the note, must have invitation to pass, which is pretty much what Brian had said. My hand immediately goes to the phone.

I pick up the handset, cradling it between my neck and shoulder. Is there a department for pink werewolves? No. Disputes then. Thank you. There's a series of clicks, followed by a low, pained moan, and then the phone is ringing on the other end. You know who it is? I have a pink werewolf here named Brian Mansion.

He's going to count Nargels' retirement party, but lost his invitation. Yeah, well, I don't really know the guy. Is there anything we can do for Brian here? His name is on the checklist. Yep. No? I wait, but he doesn't answer. No what?

But his name is on the checklist. Technically, I could let him through. I wasn't planning on it. So he screwed? Well, thanks then. I tried. Yeah, yeah, I get it. But I wasn't crying wolf this time.

Although, Brian is a wolf. The phone goes dead, and I hang up, stealing a glance out of the guardhouse at Brian. That did not sound promising for the pink hue traveler out there. No, it wasn't. And I almost broke one of my own rules. Your own rules? You have those two?

Are they allowed? Seems like they are. God hasn't struck me down yet. The guardhouse is filled with a horrible wind, and hands grasp me, spinning me about. The emissary's face is close to mine, and I can smell rot and decay on its breath. Do not take his name in vain, ever.

The wind disappears, and I'm standing by myself. The emissary is once again seated casually at the table. Its brow lifts. Is there a problem? Watchman. I catch my breath and let my heart slow its galloping beat before I respond. Do not ever do that again.

When you are in the Watchman's house, you are under the Watchman's authority. You are also granted Sanctuary. That sanctuary leaves the second I say so. Is that one of your personal rules? No, it's part of the sanctuary rule. You learn this stuff by trial and error. Would you care to test me on this one? The emissary grins, and my blood runs cold.

It shakes its head, never letting its cold, black eyes leave mine. You have been heard, watchman. My apologies. Good. I pick up my nightstick in the clipboard and step out of the guardhouse. Now I have to apologize to Brian. I heard that. Brian frowns as I walked toward him.

Apologize to me for what? You can't cross through the gate without your invitation. What? No. Will you double check for me, please? That's what I was doing. The disputes department isn't allowing it. I am sorry, but there's nothing I can do. He takes a couple of steps, looks around to make sure no one is listening, which is stupid, because in the grove, everything is listening. And he leans in like he has a huge secret.

So, is there anything I can do to help grease the wheels a little? grease the wheels? You mean a bribe? What, a bribe? He rocks back, shocked. No, of course not. That'd be illegal and unethical and maybe could work. The Midnight Watchman cannot be bribed. Oh, too good for a little extra scratch, are you? I am the Midnight Watchman, nothing else. I never leave this post. Where would I spend the bribe? The wraiths deliver all kinds of stuff.

Order something nice. I have no way to order anything. My phone connects to the city only. Don't you got some podcast or something? How do you get that out there? You've heard of my podcast? Everyone has. That's why I chose this gate instead of one of the other ones.

You seemed chill, man. I am chill. I also can't be bribed. Sorry. Well, crap. He balls his fists up and slams them against his pink thighs. crap, crap, crap, now what do I do? Go look for your invitation.

I see the look in his eye and shake my head. And don't try to go to one of the other gates. You've already been flagged. I look down at the checklist, and the asterisk, next to Brian's name is bright pink like his fur, and three times larger than before. Yeah, they'll notice you. Damn.

Okay, well you tried, right? He reaches out, probably to pat my shoulder, then looks down at my nightstick and withdraws his hand. Smart move. Sorry to have bothered you. Gonna go look for that damn invitation now. Good luck. Thanks.

He walks down the road, back toward the city, and I watch him until he's lost in the misty darkness. When I step back into the guardhouse, the emissary is thoughtfully tapping its chin. I have so many questions. First, if that Brian fellow has... heard your podcast, then it's being distributed. I do not see one of those computer machines in here. Rathes, I shrug, setting the clipboard on the desk and the nightstick next to the door.

I take a last look outside and then slide the door closed. One appears as soon as I'm done recording. I open a middle drawer on the desk and pull out a couple of chords. I keep my gear in here. I record when I have the time. Some nights are quiet, and the procession of the damned is all I deal with. Other nights are busy, and I'm putting out literal and figurative fires for hours. Interesting. Very interesting. It holds up a finger. Earlier, when you recited the 15 rules, you did not mention bribery. Yet outside, you said the Midnight Watchmen cannot be bribed. Is that one of your personal rules? No, city ordinance and ethics regulations.

Anyway, I was right. I can't spend it on anything. I get what I need when I need it. Well, most of the time. Oh, how is that? I take a glance out the window, see nothing worrying, and then sit down across from the emissary. Okay, I have my own 15 rules.

I call them the 15 rules for a new Midnight Watchman. When my replacement arrives, I plan on giving him or her some serious advice that I wish I'd gotten before I took this job. I wince and clear my throat. Not that I took it. It was sort of forced on me. Because you poisoned your parents. And now he must answer for your crime, yes?

I'd like to hear more about that after you tell me these 15 rules of yours. The subject of my parents is off limits. I say it in a tone that should make it clear that when I say off limits, I mean off limits. But with an emissary, you never know what they pick up on and what they don't. The 15 rules, please. Let us start there. After studying the creature for a moment, a nod.

Sure. Can't see how it hurts. Excuse me? That was a joke. If you say so, we sit in uncomfortable silence. The rules? Yeah. Sure. Let me think. I haven't ever formalized them. Just sort of had them bouncing around in my head.

I waved my hand about. Not like there's much else to do around here. Other than your podcast? Yeah, other than that. I leaned back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest as I think. All right. The first rule would be, don't cry wolf, unless it is a wolf. Explain. Well, when I first started this job, I didn't have a clue as to what I was doing. I knew the 15 rules, but that was it. I had questions, so I made a lot of phone calls. Ah, I see. Most of the calls were pointless and wasted everyone's time.

So I decided I wouldn't cry wolf again, until an actual wolf arrived, that is. I turn and look toward the guardhouse's single window and think of Orr Pink Brian. Most wolves are easy to deal with. They have a good deal of humanity still in them, even in wolf form. I look back at the emissary. But then there are the wolves who are truly horrible. The creatures out of tales and nightmares. The ones who are more beast, even when they are in human form.

They take some care and handling. If they are on the list, then they are allowed through the gate. If they are not on the list, well, then they get the nightstick. The emissary nods. That makes sense. But what do you do when a real wolf shows its snout? Not a werewolf. I speak of the true wolf.

I snored a little laugh and shake my head. That's when I pick up the phone and call for reinforcements. Reinforcements? They send those? No, never. The gate is my domain and my responsibility. No help ever comes. Then why call?

Rule 9. report violations immediately. How is being a wolf of violation? Because they are never on the list, and because they never want to go through the gate. Oh? Then why do they show themselves at all? What is their goal?

To eat the Midnight Watchmen. Little girls in hoods and grandma's sick in bed don't cut it anymore. Neither does devouring the sun and moon. When they show, which is very rare, they hunger for a taste of the forbidden. Me. And that is a violation of the rules.

To eat a midnight watchman? Sure is. But nothing is done. Because, technically, as I have been told, there is no violation until the wolf attacks. I can't actually report them unless I am savaged by the beast. A bureaucratic paradox. It steeples its fingers again.

So very interesting. A chuckle. Not really. I am fairly sure that my punishment isn't guarding the gate. It is the bureaucracy I deal with night in and night out. What about the day? Is there a midday watchman? No, I don't think so.

Maybe? As far as I know, it's always midnight at the gates of hell. Temporally impossible, but hard to argue against considering... It waves a hand toward the outside. Perpetual midnight is perpetual midnight. Although, through the wraith grapevine, I have heard about other watchmen who work during the day, so maybe the other gates are different? I'm hopeful for an answer to this question, but the emissary doesn't take the bait.

It's here to ask questions, not answer them. The wraiths? It shakes its head. Interesting creatures. They deliver your food, correct? Amongst other things, yes. And when is dinner time? When the wraith arrives with dinner, it grins.

Of course. It twirls its hand. Continue. I would like to know the rest of your personal rules. Rule two is make requests as needed. I point down at my boots. I had a hole in the last pair for weeks before I summed up the courage to call in a request for new ones. I roll my eyes.

It was like a bureaucratic minefield, but I navigated it and got new boots. Now I know, if I have the patience to deal with it, that I can make any request I need to. Whether the requisitions department honors my requests is another matter. A simple rule, a solid rule. Good for you, Watchman. I can't tell if it's being genuine or mocking me, but I push on. Do you want to hear the third rule? Of course. Please continue. A noise I recognize comes from outside, and I hang my head.

You're in luck. I'll show you the third rule. How so? I ignore its question and get up, my hand reaching instantly for the nightstick. Aren't you going to take the clipboard? Perhaps it is someone on the checklist. It's not. I open the sliding door.

Stay in here. But I want to observe. Do so from inside the guardhouse. Whatever is out there cannot harm me. I turn and give it a sad look. You aren't in the above right now. So best not to make assumptions. Nothing on this plane can harm me.

Yeah, well, I'd rather not find out that you're wrong. Not on my shift, not at my gate. I step into the night and point my stick at the emissary. Stay put. I could obliterate your very soul for your impertinence. You can try. Done with that conversation, I slide the door closed behind me. I don't have to turn around to know that the emissary's face is in this single window,

watching me closely. so I shout over my shoulder. My third rule is no one outside the house is your friend. Ouch, that hurts, Watchman. The sleek and sly voice comes from the shadows. Which shadows? All of them.

I thought we had rapport, you and I, but it sounds as you have been humoring me all this time. We did have rapport, Aldous, until you tried to kill me and take my soul. A shade must eat, Watchman. But you see the problem, right? Hard to be friends with a creature who wants to eat you. Only your soul, watchman, I would never eat of your flesh.

Disgusting. The distinction does nothing to help your cause, Aldus. We are not friends. Silence settles around us, and I wait. With a shade, there is no action because they do not exist. They are creatures of pure darkness and shadow, the remnants of a soul that has been long dead. but refuses to be quiet. A soul that has slipped through the cracks, escaping the below

and hopes of attaining life once again. But that cannot ever happen. So they wander the hidden corners of the city, especially the grove, hunting for souls to feed on so they can feel something, anything, if only for a few minutes. I wait, my nightstick at the ready. I don't bother to count to twelve, or ask it three questions, or give it three I do none of the Watchman stuff because with a shade, it doesn't matter. They are outside the influence of both below and above. They are Limbo incarnate, or not incarnate, depending on how you look at it. Aldous?

Yes, Watchman. Go away. I'm busy. Yes, I can see that. An emissary from above has come to visit the Midnight Watchman. how very important you must feel. All I feel is tired, Aldus. Emissary visit or not, I have my job to do. How about you slither off and let me do that job?

Slither off. Oh, watchman, that was rude even for you. My fourth rule pops into my head, and I nod. Yeah, it was. Sorry, I shouldn't have said slither. But you do need to leave. Now. Can't I just stay to watch the procession of the damned?

Seeing all those poor souls and into their horrible fate cheers me up. Aldus, leave. Oh, very well. I'll come back tomorrow night. Maybe we can chat more when you aren't distracted by an emissary. I feel the darkness and shadows move in. Then the oppressive air lifts, and the darkness is just the darkness. The shadows just...

the shadows. I wait a second, then turn and walk back to the guardhouse, sliding the door open with my nightstick. When I close it and set my stick to the side, I can see the puzzled look on the emissary's face. What? I take my hat off to scratch my head. Say it if you have something to say. You apologize to that thing. Why? The emissary's voice drips with disdain when it says, thing. I shrug. My fourth rule is to treat everyone equally. One that the above would approve of. It holds up a finger. Yet, you didn't treat it equally, did you? No, I did. It shakes its head. I'm afraid not. I did not hear you count to 12, or ask it three questions, or give it three commands. That violates rules three and five, yes? You could also argue that I violated rule six

too. No mercy, no second chances. Its finger goes to the tip of its chin. Yes? You violated that rule as well. Is there a punishment for violating rules? There is, but I didn't violate any rules. The finger leaves the chin and is wagged at me.

No, no, no, watchman. You violated three rules. We have established that. I laugh and take a seat across from him. No. You only think you've established it. You haven't. I didn't violate any rules because when it comes to a shade, the rules are flexible.

Flexible? That is not how rules work. Above is very keen on rules, so I know this implicitly. I laugh again, and this irritates it. A twitch at the corner of its mouth gives it away. This isn't the above emissary. This is the grove. This is the watchman's house.

This is the entrance to a gate into hell. You have to adjust your thinking. If I had given out warnings or counted to 12 or shown no mercy, what would have happened? That is a fair question. Please, tell me. I asked you. There is no way to answer that. Oh, can't you use your powers over time and space to see what could have been?

It watches me for a long moment. I let it. I've got time. Dinner won't be for another hour at least. Another twitch, and the emissary shakes its head. Time mistaken. There's no perhaps about it. You're 100% mistaken. What did you see? It pretends to study its non-existent fingernails. Emissary? What did you see when you tried to scry into that shade's future?

Its lip rises in a snarl. Nothing. I hold out my hands in a C gesture. There you go. Pure limbo. I could attack Aldus and probably beat him into a shadowy pulp that will leak through the cracks in the pavement and disappear. But it wouldn't matter.

He'd come back. The darkness always does. It glars at me. You've tried before. Good guess. Its glare deepens. You could have told me that at the start. I do not like being played, Watchmen.

An emissary from above should be treated with full respect at all times. Yeah, well, that's not one of my rules or one of the watchman's rules, so I'll do my best. I get up to lean against the wall and stare out the window, hoping for something to happen so I can get away from this annoying creature. But here we are. But what if you are wrong? About all this, I'm not. But what if you are?

Don't you worry that may be your punishment for violating the rules? Simply isn't being communicated to you? Nope. You seem so confident in your answer. That's my rule five, I shrug. Be confident in the 15 rules. Ah, but which are you most confident in? The true rules?

It leans forward. Or your personal rules? I don't answer and turn my attention to the night. Watchman? That was not a rhetorical question. It was, but that's a very important. It's okay if you can't tell the difference. It makes a noise between a growl and a huff.

I'm getting to it. Good. You are playing a dangerous game watchman. I would advise that. Hush. Do not hush me. It roars and leaps up from the table. I am engulfed in its presence.

All I can see and hear and feel is the power of the emissary as it towers over me. It's formed suddenly 20, 30, 50 feet tall. I am a gnat, an insignificant worm at a net, its feet, it would take nothing for it to obliterate my very existence if I didn't have my nightstick. I jabbed the emissary in what I guess is its belly, and it shrinks back to normal size. Whatever magic it was using or pulling from or gone, the creature's black eyes looked down at the stick still jammed in its gut. If you would remove that, please. You going to be nice? I give it a little extra poke. It gasps and snarls, but nods. Good.

I pull the nightstick away, and the thing relaxes, stepping back until it is seated at the table once again. Thank you. My attention returns to the outside. I hushed you because there are voices out there. Nasty voices. Voices I'll have to deal with. I needed it quiet so I can hear what they are saying. And what are they saying?

I look over at the emissary and smile. Time to kill the watchman. Oh. Yeah. Oh. Taking a deep breath, I count to 12, still hear the voices, open the door, and step into the night once again. The voices are coming from the other side of the gate, although I can't see anyone standing there. That's not unusual. Slightly alarming, yes, but not unusual.

From the sound of it, there are three of them, possibly four. We need to kill him now. Yes, yes, before the master finds out. How will the master find out? I'll tell him. We're not asking for volunteers. It sounded like you were. You who?

You're one of us, moron. You're the moron. Stupid face. Budhole? Dird swallower. What kind of turds? Does it matter? I believe it does.

Imps. I hate imps. Okay, that's enough. I swing my nightstick as I approach the gate. You know I can hear you, right? The voices go silent. Then? No, you can't.

Yeah, because we're invisible. And on the other side of the gate. the gate. So bugger you. For all that is holy and unholy, I sigh. The gate isn't solid. Sound travels through it. And you are invisible, not silent. If you make sounds, they can be heard. I wrapped the nightstick against the ornate iron decorating the gate. So just show yourselves, and tell me why you want to kill me. More silence, followed by whispers. He's lying. Most definitely. You can't hear nothing if it's invisible. If what's invisible. Stupid.

You're stupid. No, you're stupid. Guys! I call them all guys, because I can't tell the gender of the emps. Do imps have genders? I'll have to annoy the identification department with that question. Stop talking and tell me why you are here? If we stop talking, how can we tell you while we're here?

Not that we're going to tell you. No way. We came to kill you, not tell you why we're killing you. What he said. I smacked the gate again and see a flash of red over by the side of the road on the hell side. definitely imps. Nothing is that color of red in hell except imps. I'm guessing you boys work for one of the noble demons, a duke or count or something.

Oh no, he's guessed it. He didn't guess Jack Squad. Jack Squat moved to purgatory, you know. He did. Not that Jack Squat, you fools. How many Jack Squads are there? He means I didn't guess correctly. Jack Squat means nothing.

I didn't guess nothing. I'm more than tired of the conversation. Not that I'd call it a real conversation. So I raise my hands up over my head and begin to recite words I don't understand. The gate practically glows as it prepares to open. He's coming for us! Run!

In their panic, the imps reveal themselves. All of three feet tall with primary red skin, the imp's eyes are yellow slits in their pug-nosed faces. Tiny horns adorn their heads. Each has a pointed tail and a forked tongue. Classic imps. I lower my hands and stop the same. chanting. The gate stills itself, returning to its normal, dull-hued iron color.

Oh, he tricked us! May I just think he was going to open the gate. The bastard! The bastard! Calm down and just tell me why you want me dead. Or I will open this gate and come over there to beat your imp asses. The imps, all of them. Look at each other and then shrug in unison. One steps forward. You have insulted our master, Count Nargle. The imp bows low so its horns touch the ground. When it straightens, it's giving me dual middle fingers. Watchmen or not, when you insult our master, we respond in force. Yeah, that's right, jerk, in force, bitch. You know you can't get to me unless I let you through the gate, right? Maybe if you had a gun or the proper projectile hex, you might be able to, but you guys don't look like firearms,

specialists, or that familiar with projectile hexes. One imp raises its hand. I know projectile vomiting, does that count? Can your vomit kill people? Oh, yes, yes, most definitely. Huh, okay. I'll keep my eye on you. Great. That's not great, idiot.

You're the idiot. I smell something off and it ain't me. Guys, shut up! They quiet down and glare at me. Could one of you tell me why you think I insulted Count Nargle? He's the one who was having their retirement party, right? Then it hits me. Is this about Brian Mansion losing his invitation?

Brian, what chin? Don't know no, briar mansion. Brain muck? You got brain muck? Oh, no. Seriously, do you guys smell something rotten? Brian Mansion is a werewolf who was invited to Count Nargles' party. He even dyed his fur pink for the occasion. But he didn't have his invitation, so I couldn't let him through the gate.

Pink fur? Werewolf? Yes, that guy. We heard you talking to him. What, the unholy hell is that stink? If your boss is pissed I didn't let him in, then just have another invitation sent. If he has that with him, then he can pass through the gate, no problem. It ain't about this brown Marxism guy or whatever his name is.

It's about what you said to him. What a horrid thing to say. Yeah, you nasty watchman. Horrid is what I smell. I know it too. What did I say to Brian? The moment the question is out of my mouth, I realize my mistake. Two mistakes, really.

First, I shouldn't have assumed no one was on the other side of the gate just because I couldn't see them. Second, demons have very fragile egos, especially demon lords. It's because I said I couldn't place him, isn't it? Disgusting! You pig, dirty, nasty watchman. Oh shit, I know what I'm smelling. It's that! Hello, hymps!

The emissary is directly behind me. You four are looking rather pumping red this evening. An emissary. Kill it. Kill us before it does. What? No, you moron! The imps throw themselves at the gate,

and the resulting blast of cosmic energy knocks me back a few feet, right of my ass. Interesting. The emissary walks closer to the gate. Stop! The emissary doesn't stop. Just keeps walking. It's hand outstretched, fingers ready to touch the gate.

I said stop! I scrambled to my feet, but I can't get there in time. So I do a little. a very stupid thing. I throw my nightstick. It whooshes end over in toward the gate, then hits its target dead on. Wood meets emissary hand, and things don't go well. The emissary snatches back its hand and cradles its fingers to its chest. When it turns on me, its eyes are no longer black but fire red. You shouldn't have done that watchman? Ah, shit! I sprint to the guardhouse, praying I make it in time. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the

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